" There were
hundreds of them. In the morning we prepared our beds and dug our holes
for planting. The sky was lowery, and it was afternoon when we
commenced to plant.
Shortly the raindrops began to fall, but we continued our work. It
rained harder and harder. I had on only ordinary woollen clothing,
cotton shirt, no undershirt, and wore over it only an old green baize
jacket. Wet to the skin; the rain ran off of me in streams. With my wet
hands I assorted and handed the bulbs, four or five at a time, to the
gardener, and as they touched the ground or his fingers, the earth
stuck to them and mixed mud and plants together. The rain began to grow
colder and colder, and our work was not done, but as the shades of
night began to fall we finished it. Chilled and cold we wended our way
towards the greenhouse, where I changed wet clothes for dry ones. The
night came on cold; the wind howled; the rain turned into snow and on
Christmas morning the ground was covered with a rough, hard
conglomerate of snow and ice.
But the next day neither chill nor cold resulted from the long
exposure. Was it because our lives were more in harmony with nature
than is usual?
At the Eyry all through the winter, in its cosy little parlor, reigned
our queens and kings of art and music.
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